


sugary to the point of sick

by gealbhan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Baking, Berniegard Week, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Insomnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:38:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24590173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: “Well, um, would you like to help me? With baking? I—I mean, I know this isn’t really, um, work befitting of someone of your status and everything, but—I wanted to make lemon cakes from this old recipe from my mother’s side of the family, and this sort of thing used to help me when I couldn’t sleep, um, back at home, so—” Bernadetta trails off and sways gently on her feet while she waits for an answer.Edelgard takes a minute to mull that over. “Lemon cakes, you say?” She’d be lying if she said the thought didn’t whet her appetite. With a shrug, she joins Bernadetta behind the counter. “I can’t say that I’ll know quite what to do, but I wouldn’t mind assisting.”
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Bernadetta von Varley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63
Collections: Berniegard Week 2020





	sugary to the point of sick

**Author's Note:**

> written for day 5 of berniegard week: sweets/first kiss!
> 
> for the purposes of this fic, please imagine garreg mach has a marginally more advanced kitchen, bc i was both too lazy to make medieval cooking accurate and too determined to make this a modern au. title from "can you keep up" by blue kid. enjoy!

“Oh, no, no, _no_! Dang it, Bernie, why can’t you just do this one thing right?!”

The cry rings out through the night, prompting Edelgard to pause mid-step, blinking as she processes what she’s heard. For a split second, she is gripped by fear—but as soon as the shout registers in her mind, it vanishes. The voice and its intentions are unmistakable. Its source, though, is less clear.

There shouldn’t be anyone else awake now. Edelgard herself shouldn’t be up, really—however, sleepless nights, riddled with anxiety and horrific images against her eyelids and pain deep in her bones, have been trite to her for years. Now, she faces the concept of solidarity in restlessness with simultaneous concern and intrigue.

She brings herself to look around. There are no further sounds but for the distant chirping of crickets, but it’s a quick process of elimination from her current position. The shout had been near enough for her to hear, but far enough to be somewhat muffled. The greenhouse is too far right; the dorms, too far behind. There’s no sign of movement around the dock. That leaves, in Edelgard’s shifting line of sight, only one location where the oh-so-mysterious voice could have come from.

Relaxing her shoulders as best she can, Edelgard strides toward the dining hall. This late, the lights should have been out for hours, but there is light in the kitchen area, several flames swaying in the breeze atop the chandeliers. Illuminated is a sprawl of ingredients and utensils. Behind the counter is a person who looks more like a shadow, hand to her temple, which must be—

“Bernadetta?”

A head flies upward. Bernadetta’s hair—which has been growing out toward her shoulders, a transition marked by split ends—stirs around her face as she blinks across the room.

“Lady Edelgard?” asks Bernadetta in return, pale face filling with color. She hurries to bow her head back down. “I’m sorry! I know I shouldn’t be up and awake this late, I—I just—I couldn’t sleep, and I, um, I’m really sorry! I’ll clean up here—” she sweeps her hands out toward the cluttered counter “—and just go back to my room and go to bed—”

“Bernadetta. Calm yourself, please.” Edelgard raises her hands from where they’ve been folded behind her back. “I am not here to berate you. You live here, so you’re more than welcome to the facilities.”

Bernadetta bites her lip and says nothing. It’s more alarming than her rambling.

With a quick sigh, Edelgard rests her hands again at her sides. Bernadetta’s eyes follow the motion. “I find myself in a similar position, in fact,” continues Edelgard. “In regards to your lack of sleep, that is.”

“Oh?” asks Bernadetta, little more than a squeak. “You mean—you, the mighty Lady Edelgard, have trouble sleeping sometimes too?”

“No need to rub it in.” Voice dry, Edelgard reaches up to rub beneath one of her eyes. She’s sure her dark circles will catch Hubert’s attention come morning—she’s only lucky she’s made it this far without him realizing.

“Ah.” Bernadetta freezes again. “I—I’m sorry, I—”

Edelgard shakes her head. “Relax. I don’t mind.”

Bernadetta seems to be at a loss as to how to respond to that. She stands there chewing her lip for another moment while Edelgard considers leaving her to it and continuing on her walk. Then Bernadetta blurts, “Well, um, would you like to help me?”

“…Help? With what?”

Abashed but bright-eyed, Bernadetta gestures again to the counter. “With baking,” she clarifies. “I—I mean, I know this isn’t really, um, work befitting of someone of your status and everything, but—I wanted to make lemon cakes from this old recipe from my mother’s side of the family, and this sort of thing used to help me when I couldn’t sleep, um, back at home, so—” She trails off and sways gently on her feet while she waits for an answer.

Edelgard takes a minute to mull that over. “Lemon cakes, you say?” She’d be lying if she said the thought didn’t whet her appetite. With a shrug, she joins Bernadetta behind the counter. “I can’t say that I’ll know quite what to do, but I wouldn’t mind assisting.”

Despite having made the offer, Bernadetta looks more shocked than Edelgard. “R-Really?! Okay! Thank you, Lady Edelgard!”

“Of course,” says Edelgard, shaking away a bemused smile.

Bernadetta doesn’t seem to hear her, too busy rifling through everything she already has out. “I don’t have an apron for you—” Edelgard glances at Bernadetta’s own; it looks handmade and features fabric patterned with little roses “—so you shouldn’t do anything too hands-on. I’ve already got most of the ingredients here, I was just having trouble with, um, actually getting it all put together. Let’s see—rosewater, butter, sugar, flour, hartshorn salt, cloves, mace, honey—and lemons, obviously. What else do I—? Oh! Lady Edelgard, would you mind checking for some saffron for me?” As soon as she says it, she looks ready to take it back, as tame as the suggestion is.

“All right.” With tentative movements that surely reveal her inexperience, Edelgard moves toward the cupboard. The jars of spices and other ingredients are thankfully labeled. It takes little time to locate some saffron. “Here.”

“Thanks!” Bernadetta takes the jar with a quick smile and turns back to her pile of ingredients. She mumbles to herself as she sets the saffron down amongst them: “Honestly, Bernie, how do you miss this, it’s such an important spice, and it’s stored right there next to the mace and cloves, too—”

Edelgard figures this isn’t meant for her ears, so she glances away until Bernadetta cuts herself off. Then she allows herself to ask, “What else do you require of me?”

It’s been some time since Edelgard has taken orders from another, and this setting is far removed from following the professor’s tactical advice on the battlefield. The trade-off of security for control is not one she’s used to making, and she finds herself startled by how comfortable it feels. To step back for a moment and forget her status. To assist and listen, even in something as simple as baking, instead of lead.

Bernadetta seems less comforted by her newfound position of authority. She flounders for a moment, and when she does speak, her voice shakes. “Um, I need to mix the butter and sugar and then beat in the egg yolks, so I guess you can dissolve the hartshorn? Just take half of a teaspoon of this—” she hands over a small jar of a pale material like salt “—and dissolve it in a teaspoon of hot water.”

Easy enough. Edelgard nods and steps over to the sink to do so. When she returns, Bernadetta is already gesturing for her to blend the dissolved hartshorn into the mixture she’s stirring into a bowl.

With their relative amounts of experience in these matters, Edelgard allows Bernadetta to take the reins from there. She watches as Bernadetta blends together the different ingredients and works them into a ball of dough, which she then kneads and rolls out onto the floured countertop, approaching the steps of baking with which Edelgard is familiar.

Edelgard’s attention stays on the cusp of blatant and subtle. Too much, she knows, makes Bernadetta uncomfortable, but she wants her presence to stay known without being overbearing—a comfort, not a burden.

It seems to work well enough for them both. Bernadetta works in diligent silence, her movements repetitious in a way that tells Edelgard she’s done this many times before. Edelgard doesn’t understand the full scope of what she’s observing, but she does acknowledge Bernadetta’s skill and attentiveness with a faint smile.

Then comes time to cut the rolled-out dough. “I kept messing up here earlier,” confesses Bernadetta. “And then I just kept thinking about it in the earlier steps and psyching myself out way too soon, and—uh, b-but you don’t need to hear about all of that. So, um. Would you mind—?”

She doesn’t need to ask twice. This, Edelgard is familiar with—the floured butter knife Bernadetta hands her isn’t quite a weapon she’s used to, but it’s far more similar to a sword or an axe than, say, a mixing spoon is. With her skill and eye for precision, as well as Bernadetta’s occasional mumbled instructions, she’s able to cut the dough into neat rows.

“Awesome! Thanks, Lady Edelgard.” Bernadetta arranges the dough on a sheet of parchment paper, pokes vent holes in each one with a fork, and brushes her hands off. Only then does she notice the state of Edelgard’s clothing. “Aw, I should’ve had you take the apron.”

“It will wash off,” says Edelgard with a shrug.

Bernadetta looks more apprehensive, but she nods anyway. “Well, into the oven with you guys,” she says to the dough.

Edelgard hangs back while Bernadetta, whistling to herself, slides the paper in. There’s not much else for Edelgard to do, or so she assumes, but since Bernadetta hasn’t indicated she should leave yet—and since the cakes aren’t yet finished—she stays where she is. The dining hall is, she’s coming to realize, more comfortable than she’s ever thought of it being. Perhaps that’s due to her present company.

Toying with the ends of her hair, Bernadetta straightens back up. “It’ll take about fifteen minutes to cook,” she says, setting up an hourglass. “So—” she turns “—Lady Edelgard! How have you been?”

Hearing the strain in her voice, Edelgard tilts her head. “We needn’t speak to pass the time if you’re uncomfortable doing so,” she says, careful of her wording. “If you’d like to, that’s all right, but don’t feel like you must.”

“Oh.” Relief flashes across Bernadetta’s face. “Um, thank you, Lady Edelgard. You’re right. Thanks.”

For the next fifteen-odd minutes, Bernadetta makes no other attempt to speak. She busies herself instead with rearranging some of the cupboards, sometimes whistling again. Edelgard sighs with subtle relief of her own at making the correct assumption—and that it had aligned with her wishes. There’s a certain comfort to this silence after so much time (though Edelgard isn’t certain how much has passed) filled with quiet instructions and suggestions. It’s not uncomfortable in the least, and Edelgard even relaxes as it goes on.

Then the sand in the timer drains, and Bernadetta bolts upright, almost banging her head on the cupboard door. She adjusts herself just in time. “Okay,” she says once she’s maneuvered herself out of the way, “that’s it. Now is the moment of truth, I guess.”

Bernadetta and Edelgard work together to slide the baked dough, which has turned a nice golden shade but—to Bernadetta’s relief and Edelgard’s indifference, though she assumes it’s something positive—hasn’t turned brown underneath, out and onto a wire rack. Steam trails up from the cakes as they lean back to admire their handiwork.

“Let’s work on the glaze while they cool,” suggests Bernadetta. “That’ll just be the lemon juice and honey mixed together over low heat. I—I think I’ll be able to handle that by myself.”

Edelgard doesn’t argue, content to lean against the counter and wait. Though her weariness has ebbed, she alternates between resting her eyes and eyeing the fading candlelight instead of watching Bernadetta, which she’s certain would fluster her and result in any number of disastrous situations that they don’t need to hassle with this late into the baking process. After a couple of minutes of calm mixing, Bernadetta turns the stove off and rejoins her. They wait a couple of minutes longer for the cakes to finish cooling.

While she brushes the glaze onto the cakes, Bernadetta hums. The melody isn’t one Edelgard recognizes—and it may not exist outside of Bernadetta’s mind, in which case she commends her—but it’s pleasant enough to listen to, so she doesn’t remark on it, only letting it wash over her.

Then Bernadetta moves the cakes to a plate rescued from a cabinet and sets them down on the counter with a flourish. “And—all done! Ta-da! Lemon cakes!”

Edelgard peers down at the result of their—mostly Bernadetta’s—hard work. Lying upon the plate are several rows of small, shiny, biscuit-like treats; not anything Edelgard might instinctively describe as _cake_ , but tasty-looking treats nonetheless. She and Bernadetta stare down for a moment with something approaching parental pride.

“Well,” says Bernadetta, “we should try them before they get too cold, right?”

“Indeed,” agrees Edelgard.

They both proceed to not move.

A game of chicken follows. They exchange glances out of the very corners of their eyes, trying to goad each other without a word. There’s something nerve-wracking, Edelgard must admit, about trying food one has contributed to making themself, especially given she has never baked before, as limited as her role in the overall process had been. She and Bernadetta continue to stand still, arms crossed and eyes on the cakes without a hint of any intentions to consume them before the night ends.

The worry that had kept Edelgard awake returns to her over a much more ridiculous problem. The cakes smell delightful, and her mouth waters at the sight of them. But what if that’s a mere smokescreen? What if Edelgard and Bernadetta screwed up while baking? What if the recipe called for ingredients that are deadly when combined? Edelgard has spent too much time as an Imperial noble and Hubert’s ally to not keep her nose out for poison.

The humor of the situation is not lost on her. Here she is, the Adrestian emperor and interim commander of the Black Eagle Strike Force, scared to eat a _lemon cake_ because it might taste bad. Yet she can’t laugh, given the sheer seriousness with which both she and Bernadetta face the situation.

 _All right_ , Edelgard decides, _this childish game has gone on long enough. I doubt Bernadetta will make the first move, so I suppose the task falls to me._

So she takes a deep breath and prepares herself to pick up one of the sweets.

But before she can, Bernadetta inhales herself, seeming to startle them both, and says, “Here goes nothing,” in a voice firmer than Edelgard has ever heard from her. She reaches down to close her fingers over one of the cakes. Hand trembling, she brings it to her mouth and pinches her eyes shut. Then, with the same amount of solemnity, she bites down.

Edelgard watches, rapt, fears forgotten. She’s teetering forward with an almost girlish anticipation, anxious to see the result of something she’d had a hand in creating.

She’s not disappointed. It takes a moment of processing, but after a couple of seconds pass, Bernadetta’s eyes just about light up, and a muffled “Oh!” sounds. She continues chewing, though it seems somewhat more difficult with the smile splitting across her cheeks. Her face almost seems to glow in the darkness. She’s grinning wider than Edelgard has ever seen her grin, and it’s a lovely grin, indeed. Her joy, so earnest and open and over something so simple, brings a subconscious smile to Edelgard’s face, soft and breathless.

The sound of Bernadetta swallowing jars Edelgard from her stupor. She blinks as Bernadetta, already reaching for another cake, says, “Okay, I swear I’m not just saying this, but these are _really_ good. You should try one, Edelgard!”

Edelgard pauses. “I will in a moment,” she says, too caught by Bernadetta’s expression to care much about the sweets for which she’d agreed to this to begin with.

Mouth too full to speak, Bernadetta shrugs. She finishes her second cake with a decisive gulp and reaches for her third—and last, Edelgard finds after Bernadetta almost inhales it and then wipes the crumbs from her mouth. She looks horrified with herself for doing so.

“Oh, um! I’m so sorry about my manners, Lady Edelgard,” she says with a quick bow. “I—I guess I just was so excited I forgot myself.”

Despite herself, Edelgard laughs. “It’s no trouble at all, Bernadetta,” she says with a smile she hopes is reassuring but only seems to make Bernadetta more embarrassed. “I understand. You needn’t worry so much about etiquette.” Bold words from her, she’s sure, but such formality matters little in the current state of the world—and, she should hope, its future.

“It’s—a little hard for me _not_ to.” Bernadetta twists a lock of hair around her finger.

“I understand that as well. Just—think on it, I suppose.” Edelgard slides her own hair behind her ear, realizing that her haphazard ponytail has come half-loose by now.

“Is that an order, Your Majesty?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Edelgard hurries to say, turning with alarm—only to find Bernadetta grinning at her.

“I—I was teasing—or at least, um, trying to,” says Bernadetta through hesitant giggles, looking flustered but still pleased, “since I guess it didn’t come across very well.”

“Oh!” Edelgard’s cheeks go warm, and she chuckles, however belated it is. “I apologize. I’m not used to such a tone from you.”

“Yeah, neither am I.” Bernadetta rubs at the back of her neck, smile gone sheepish. “Well, um, I’m actually getting kind of sleepy now? So, uh—”

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Embarrassed as she is to admit it, even to herself, Edelgard had somehow forgotten their very reason for being here. She sweeps a hand toward the exit. “By all means, go rest up. We have plenty of hard days ahead of us.”

Though nodding, Bernadetta continues to hover there. Edelgard is about to ask what else she has to say when she coughs and ducks her head. “Hey, um—thank you again, Lady Edelgard. I don’t think these would’ve turned out half as good without your help.”

Edelgard raises a hand. “Nonsense, Bernadetta. Your help was essential. Loath as I am to admit it, I’m—” she interrupts herself with a self-deprecating cough “—somewhat helpless in these matters—but I feel as though I’ve learned quite a bit tonight. So thank _you_.”

“Aw, Lady Edelgard…” Bernadetta claps her hands to her cheeks, though she manages a defiant scowl. “Just let me be grateful, okay?”

“Only if you’ll allow me to be grateful in return,” says Edelgard, raising an eyebrow.

At that, Bernadetta makes a face, but it doesn’t hold for long before she’s huffing out a weak laugh. Then, with a cautious sort of boldness, she steps forward on shaky legs, edging closer to Edelgard before she leans down (another steady realization of Edelgard’s over the months: Bernadetta has surpassed her in height) and presses a fleeting kiss to Edelgard’s cheek.

Edelgard’s breath leaves her in an inhale. The touch is light and gone in an instant when Bernadetta stumbles back as if struck with thunder magic. Edelgard feels a similar tingle beneath her skin, but she stays still, blinking as she waits for a reaction from Bernadetta.

She receives none. The silence becomes grating after a couple of moments of watching each other with the utmost caution, so Edelgard clears her throat and begins to say, “Bernadetta, it’s all right, I—” but, as if compelled into action by the sound of Edelgard’s voice, Bernadetta moves before she can finish. With a speed that Edelgard has only seen from her in the direst of battles, Bernadetta vaults over the counter. She manages to avoid knocking anything over, though she still pauses to right herself on the edge before she attempts to continue toward the exit.

“Goodnight, Lady Edelgard! Sleep well!” she cries over her shoulder. “Let’s do this again sometime!”

Edelgard opens her mouth to respond, but Bernadetta has already rushed out the door, almost tripping again on her way.

In her absence, silence—punctuated by the flickering of still-lit candles—creeps back in. Bernadetta had told Edelgard to sleep well, but somehow, any thoughts of being able to rest after this have left her altogether.

Edelgard reaches up to brush her fingers over the spot Bernadetta’s lips had been. Her skin is warm to the touch, and it takes her a second to realize that it’s because a blush has crept almost all the way up to her hairline. A jolt goes through her when she recalls the additional warmth of Bernadetta’s kiss, impulsive yet tender.

Flushing deeper now, Edelgard reaches for a cake, knowing full well it will be nowhere as sweet as the sight of Bernadetta’s gentle smile.

**Author's Note:**

> recipe referenced can be found [[here](http://www.innatthecrossroads.com/lemon-cakes/)]. also, yes, both of my berniegard week fics had them meeting bc of insomnia... this was not actually a factor in the original draft of yesterday's, so that was 100% accidental! still fond of it though :^)
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! if you have time to spare, comments and kudos are always appreciated! <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


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